


Unclasp'd to Thee the Book

by Alvitr



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Autism Spectrum, Gen, Pillar of Darkness, Post-Canon, Trans Character, Transgender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 14:27:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4670018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alvitr/pseuds/Alvitr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>As time wore on in the unending darkness of the Pillar, Jonathan Strange and Gilbert Norrell began to shed secrets the way snakes shed skin.</i>
</p>
<p>Written for bookhobbit as part of the JSAMN Society of Magicians Auction House.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unclasp'd to Thee the Book

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bookhobbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookhobbit/gifts).



> I wrote this as a winning bid in the auction house for [bookhobbit](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bookhobbit), who requested a story about trans Norrell. This is heavily influenced by book's own stories, as well as syntheticcathedral's [trans Norrell art](http://syntheticcathedral.tumblr.com/post/125553219315/the-first-argument-of-the-day-always-arises-from).

> “Stand you a while aloof, Cesario,
> 
> Thou know’st no less but all; I have unclasp’d
> 
> To thee the book even of my secret soul.”
> 
> _Twelfth Night_

 

As time wore on in the unending darkness of the Pillar, Jonathan Strange and Gilbert Norrell began to shed secrets the way snakes shed skin.

By the light of candles which barely seemed to penetrate the blackness, they would sit, side by side, when they were weary of exploring, or arguing, or searching for an end to their curse, and speak of things neither had thought they would ever tell another.

First Norrell confessed the full extent of the business of Lady Pole’s resurrection, and how terribly wrong it had gone. Of course, Strange knew the basics by now, but it was freeing to finally speak of it, at last, to someone; to apologize; to be forgiven. And Strange did forgive him, inasmuch as he had the authority to forgive.

Next Strange spoke, haltingly, of the things he had done in the war. Of the sight of dying men, of the fear and despair, of raising the dead. He told of how he still woke sometimes and thought those corpses were searching for him still, as they had relentlessly until Wellington’s men had thrown them onto the fire. And then he dreamed of burning with them.

On another occasion, Norrell told Strange of how he had intercepted Mrs. Strange’s letters during the war. He waited, unable to breathe, as the other magician sat in silence, as though warring with himself. At last he said, his voice hoarse, “It is over now, Mr. Norrell,” and at last he could breathe again.

In turn, Strange described what he had seen in his madness, the wild and terrible visions he had suffered, and worst of all, the wonderful sense of peace that had come with the abandonment of all reason, and how desperately he sometimes longed for it, even now.

Norrell told him of his childhood. How lonely and strange it had been, of what he remembered of his parents, which was not much; of the days spent in isolation with only servants for company, except for his uncle, who was old and confused and had often had trouble remembering his name. Of how he took solace in books of magic, and how he grew to love, and then later hate, the Raven King. Of how he learned to enjoy the solitude. (If his words seemed to stutter at times as he told of the past, and he seemed to elide gently over some details, Strange made no mention of it.)

Strange recalled his own youth, passed back and forth between a father who despised him and his mother’s family, who spoiled him, but, in their own way, seemed to use him as a tool to attack the man he hated. How he had often dreamed as a child that his mother was standing at the foot of his bed, watching him, but as he grew older, he would sometimes realize that in his imagination she no longer looked like the portrait that hung of her on his bedroom wall at the Erquistounes’s, but looked instead like various other people’s mothers instead. How he never felt comfortable in one place for very long. He had always been waiting to be moved to the next place.

Strange wondered if there were anything left to tell. They seemed to have shared everything. And yet something in Mr. Norrell’s manner told him that there was something more which he held back. But Strange would not press. He was content for Mr. Norrell to tell him when he was ready.

* * *

It began because their hair was growing so long. Strange did not much mind his own, and was content to let it grow, but Mr. Norrell had long ago lost his wig, and his curly hair was trailing past his ears. It seemed to bother him tremendously.

“Shall I cut it for you?” Strange asked.

Norrell looked hesitant. Strange knew that he did not enjoy being touched – he had learned that long ago. He waited, letting the offer stand, and at last, Norrell nodded in acquiescence.

It took some time to locate a pair of shears, and then to light up the room sufficiently for such an endeavor. There was also the matter that Strange had no idea what he was doing, for he had never cut anyone’s hair before – but then, how difficult could it be?

As the shears neared his head, Norrell gave a little shiver – of fear? Strange was not sure. But he said nothing, and was silent as Strange snipped away, inexpertly, but without incident. The end result was a bit uneven, and not as short as Norrell had normally worn it under his wigs, but nonetheless, when he looked briefly in the mirror, Strange thought he looked greatly relieved.

“Thank you,” Norrell said, and gave a funny little smile.

* * *

It was several days later that Mr. Norrell knocked upon the door of Strange’s room. It was morning, or at least the clocks told them it was so (though Strange often wondered if they had lost count of which rotation of the twelve hours they were situated in; it was difficult to tell) and Strange had not been awake for very long. He was just finishing shaving when he heard the knocking, and for a moment was spun back into a time when a knock upon his chamber door was not an unusual thing at all – it might be any number of people – Jeremy Johns, or Arabella, or even Major Grant, come to tell him Lord Wellington was waiting on his arrival. But it could only be one person now, and that person was Gilbert Norrell; in all the time they had been imprisoned in the Pillar (however long that was he could no longer accurately say) Mr. Norrell had never once knocked upon his door.

He opened it and peered out. Mr. Norrell stood in the corridor illuminated by a single candle, which was trembling slightly, for the hand that was holding it was trembling as well. He looked dreadfully anxious and his mouth was set in a grim line. He was wrapped up tightly in his dressing gown.

“Is everything all right, Mr. Norrell?” he asked.

Norrell opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He closed his mouth again and frowned, a little line appearing between his brows. He blinked rapidly, and then tried again.

“There – there is something I would like your assistance with, Mr. Strange,” he said. His voice was unsteady and a little hoarse.

Strange surveyed him with some surprise. “You have only to name it, sir,” he said.

He followed Mr. Norrell silently to his own bedchamber. Once there, Norrell placed the candlestick on a table and turned to face him, his hands clenching and unclenching at the collar of his dressing gown.

“I –“ he began, and then stopped. It took some time for him to able to speak again. “Childermass always used to help me with this,” he said, vaguely. “I have been getting along on my own, but it really is quite difficult, you see.”

Strange did not see. “You must be more specific, sir, if you wish for me to help you,” he said gently.

Norrell let out a shaky breath. “I cannot,” he said. “But I will show you – only – only please don’t ask … I know you will have questions, but – I can’t speak of it right now. Perhaps later. But not at the moment.” He bit his lip, and then turned away from Strange. He was about to wonder what it was he was doing, when Norrell suddenly lowered the dressing gown, just to the middle of his back. One hand went around and clamped firmly at his side to hold in place a series of bandages which were wrapped, somewhat loosely and awkwardly, around his chest.

Strange stared for a moment, his mind racing. He wondered if Norrell had some sort of terrible injury, but that seemed impossible. He could hear Norrell’s breathing coming quicker, and could tell he was becoming more and more anxious by the moment. He had said that Childermass had always helped him – with – with this? But what?

And then, suddenly, something seemed to slot into place. He took in the sight of the man before him, bare shouldered, one hand by this point clenching rather tightly at the cloth wound around him, bisecting his torso in half – and it seemed to him that a number of things seemed to make a great deal more sense. He let out a long breath of astonishment.

Norrell, however, had it seemed had enough. He began to jerkily pull the dressing gown upwards. “I apologize, Mr. Strange – never mind – please don’t ment –“

“How,” Strange interrupted, suddenly, “how did Childermass do it? Do you remember? Tell me, or show me, as best as you can.”

Norrell froze for a moment. Then he let the dressing gown slide back to its previous position, and began to describe, in a sort of detached tone – his nervousness only betrayed by a few unexpected pauses in his speech – how Childermass had used to bind his chest.

Strange listened, and then asked permission if he might try. Norrell gave him a jerking nod.

He tried to be as careful as he could be not to touch Norrell, not wanting to cause him any further discomfort, or to disturb the dressing gown. When he thought he had accomplished the task, he asked, “Is it too tight? Or not tight enough?”

Norrell gave an experimental deep breath and rolled his shoulders. “I should like it a bit tighter – but – but Childermass would say it was adequate.”

“Well,” Strange said amiably, “I suppose we must submit to Childermass’s wisdom.”

Norrell nodded, and pulled the dressing gown up over his shoulders and tied it closed. He turned around, and Strange looked him in the face for the first time since he had first turned his back to him.

“Thank you for your help, Mr. Strange,” Norrell said. His eyes were darting about the room, resting anywhere besides on Strange. “I … I take it you would not mind assisting me in this way in the future, then?”

“It would be my pleasure, sir,” Strange replied and extended his hand. Norrell stared at it for a moment, and then extended his own hand to meet it. They shook hands, and Norrell, at last, glanced up at him, and smiled.


End file.
